


the two of us tonight (we can make it last forever)

by buffydyke



Series: The Story of Us [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: And then this happened, Anyway it's very gay, F/F, I just wanted an enemies to lovers fic, I s2g i didn't plan on it getting this long, There's some nice kissing, enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 00:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7197392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffydyke/pseuds/buffydyke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy hates Cordelia (or, at least, she thinks she does).</p>
            </blockquote>





	the two of us tonight (we can make it last forever)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from/song mentioned in the fic is L.A. Baby by the Jonas Brothers. Yell at me. I love it.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy. I worked hard on this. It's 4 AM. I may write more to this verse in the future, who knows.
> 
> As for a context, this is set in modern times, and it's non-supernatural, non-slayery. 
> 
> Brief mentions of alcohol use, and also some reckless behavior. They're okay, though. They're in the desert. 
> 
> Catch me on [tumblr](http://www.wlwbuffy.tumblr.com).

Buffy Summers hates Cordelia Chase.

Buffy thinks she could write a book with all the things she hates about Cordelia, really. It’s not even the major things that bother her anymore--the way that Cordelia’s always rude, always has everyone fawning over her, always gets the best positions on the cheer squad. No, Buffy’s hatred for Cordelia has found a home amongst even the smallest of things. The way Cordelia’s hair is always perfect in the way that Buffy’s isn’t, the way her outfits always coordinate like they’ve been plucked straight from a fashion magazine, the way her lipstick is always flawless (and, admittedly, always accents the bow of her lips in just the right way, but it’s not like Buffy’s looking); It all drives Buffy so, so crazy.

It’s all Buffy can think about, sometimes. She finds herself watching Cordelia during class, her eyes fixed on her. Buffy studies how she moves, how effortlessly everything seems to come to her. It’s enough to send a tinge of rage through her. Cordelia has it all, truly--money, brains, talent. Now, she’s even acquired Buffy’s unwilling fascination. 

Buffy hates her. 

Even a glance of Cordelia in the hallways around Sunnydale High is enough to send Buffy into a bout of rage these days. It’s become a routine: With the mere sight of Harmony trotting along at her heels, Buffy will duck out of Cordelia’s view, dragging Willow along with her. Xander’s always left stranded. Maybe some day, Buffy will feel bad about that. For now, though, she’s more focused on Cordelia.

When they get to the bathroom on this particular day, the scene unfolds much like any other. Willow seems annoyed that Buffy’s pulled this again. While Willow herself is notorious for ignoring her own problems, she holds Buffy to higher standards. Buffy hates that about her.

“Okay, Buff,” Willow says, hands flapping about. She’s clearly annoyed, and she’s as animated as she can be after being shoved into a cramped bathroom. The way her back’s pressed against the paper towel dispenser can’t be comfortable. Buffy tries to look at the wall above Willow’s head instead of directly at her. “This is getting ridiculous. I know you don’t like Cordelia, but--”

“You don’t _understand_ , Will,” Buffy snaps back, arms crossed. With as many times as they’ve had this conversation, she figures Willow would have caught on by now. It’s tiresome to explain, really, and it’s hardly a difficult concept. Sometimes, Buffy thinks, Willow makes things difficult on purpose. “I _hate_ her.” 

Willow raises a brow like she wants to say something more, but doesn’t. Buffy hates when she does that. She always looks like she wants to say _something more_ when the subject of Cordelia Chase comes up. It’s annoying. The only thing worse than being pressed for information is when things go unsaid. 

When they exit the bathroom, Cordelia’s gone.

* * *

Sometimes, before Buffy falls asleep, she finds herself listening to songs that remind her of Cordelia.

It’s not voluntary, of course--who _voluntarily_ listens to songs that remind them of the person they hate?--, it’s just that her iPod always seems to shuffle to songs that scream _Cordelia_. 

It’s annoying at first. Staring up through the dark at her bedroom ceiling, Buffy can’t keep track of how many times she has to skip a Marina and the Diamonds song because it’s too much like something Cordelia would listen to. That only serves to annoy Buffy even more. Cordelia probably thinks Marina and the Diamonds is a band. The thought makes Buffy scoff. She also probably thinks _Primadonna_ is called _Primadonna Girl_.

Finally, Buffy gives in; Partly because she’s too tired to keep skipping songs (and, seriously, who had the audacity to make iPod screens so obnoxiously bright?), but also because the lull of a constant stream of music helps her fall asleep. It’s times like these--when the promise of sleep eludes her--that Buffy is willing to risk coming across something that reminds her of Cordelia. 

When the song begins, Buffy falls into a bliss of familiarity. Her eyes flutter shut, a smile teasing her lips. It’s the Jonas Brothers in the best way, upbeat and happy. They remind Buffy of better days, really; Before life got hard. She still thinks Nick isn’t bad looking, if she’s completely honest with herself.

But as one verse rolls on, Buffy’s heart clenches. 

_The two of us tonight_  
_We can make it last forever_  
_We're in the neon lights_  
_It's just you and me together_  
_Hollywood is the time_  
_The stars are shining_  
_For you and me tonight in this city_  
_Where dreams are made of_

She’s suddenly overwhelmed. Whatever brand of nostalgia she had been feeling before has been replaced with something . . . very different. Something jittery. 

It’s a thought of Cordelia.

She’s walking with her, hand in hand, through the streets of Los Angeles. Cordelia always seemed like more of the L.A. type. Sometimes, Buffy can’t believe that _she’s_ actually the one from there. Cordelia drags her into one of the trendier clothing stores. It’s not night--not quite, anyway--but the sun is on its last leg. It won’t be long before the signs of neon shine out against darkness, and Buffy’s not sure she wants to walk home in the dark. Still, she doesn’t say anything. Cordelia’s enjoying herself.

They try on clothes together, model for each other. The clothes are expensive, but Buffy tries to not pay attention to the price tags. She’s here for fun, she reminds herself. And the realization comes rushing back to her; Buffy can’t help but notice how nice everything looks on Cordelia. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen Cordelia _not_ look nice.

The thought ends when they disappear into the dressing room stall together. 

Buffy shakes it away. That . . . was unexpected. And unwelcomed. Of all the people Buffy had daydreamed about in that way, Cordelia had been at the bottom of her list of expectations. 

The troubling thing, though, was that Buffy didn’t hate it. 

She quickly skips the song the remainder of the song. She’s not in a Jonas Brother mood anymore. As “When I Get Home, You’re So Dead” floods her speakers, Buffy breathes a sigh of relief. _Now_ this _is a song for Cordelia_ , she tells herself. 

She tries to forget the memory.

She can’t.

* * *

Buffy can’t remember why she decided to go to this party. 

It's not that Buffy doesn't like parties--she _very much_ does--it's just that . . . well, she's going alone. While the unexpected invitations had startled them all, Xander and Willow had been obviously more shaken up. They had flaked on her without so much as an apology (“We’re not those sorts of people, Buff”), but Buffy supposed they didn’t really owe her one.

Regardless, that should have been enough to tell Buffy that she needed to stay home, too. She could have a fun night in. Sure, she had seen _Apocalypse Now_ about a hundred times thanks to Xander but . . . 

Something had told Buffy that staying home would make her less than satisfied. She wasn’t hard to please, really, but dissatisfaction never set well with her. So, much in her own typical fashion, she put on her best outfit (a pink crop top and mini skirt could satisfy any occasion) and headed out. 

Harmony Kendall has the biggest mansion Buffy has ever seen. It’s simultaneously old and new, white roman columns paired with overlooking modern balconies and frames. Buffy’s house was nice, no doubt, but it was nowhere near as nice as this place. It was the type of home that confirmed Harmony had never been poor, and neither had her parents, or her parents’ parents. 

She found herself wondering if Cordelia’s mansion was at all like this. (Somehow, Buffy figures it’s even nicer.)

As Buffy steps inside, she’s hit with both the smell of expensive perfumes and the stifling scent of cheap booze. At first, she’s amazed that Harmony would let something as primal as common beer into her lavish mansion, but then it makes sense. Why would she waste her best champagne on unimportant guests? 

Buffy winds and twists her way through dancing bodies, music blaring from what feels like all around her. She doesn’t recognize the tune--it must be one of those obscurely popular songs that Buffy can never seem to get into. Still, it’s got a nice beat, and Buffy finds bodies moving against her own. She somehow ends up with a can in her hand, and she pops the top, takes a sip. She feels her face contort, her nose scrunch. Alcohol isn’t bad--she’s had more than her fair share of it--, but somehow, cheap beer has never been able to touch the spot for her. She figures her tastes lie more along the lavishly fruity side. Still, she drinks it. She doesn’t feel comfortable wasting it. 

The heat of moving and dancing bodies surrounds her, engulfing her. In the back of her mind, Buffy feels lost, but she has a buzz from the beer and this is a party, so she moves along with them. She makes her own rules. Her hips move freely in the skirt, swaying along with the beat. When she feels someone press against her, his hand on the small of her back, she doesn’t protest.

He’s not bad looking. Even in the flashing of colored lights, Buffy catches a glimpse of soft eyes, cropped brown hair. He looks like the type anyone could go for. Still, she grows bored quickly. He uses the same moves and lines that Buffy’s heard a million times, and she leaves him. She’s thankful he doesn’t pursue. She’s not in the mood.

After twisting and pushing through a mass of cultivating bodies, Buffy finds herself in the kitchen. The dimmed lights reflect off the the posh and polished surfaces of the appliances. Oddly enough, the room strikes her as elegant. It’s a far cry from the messy, lived in feel of her own kitchen back at home.

It suddenly occurs to Buffy that none of this feels real. Like it’s a dream, somehow, or like this is something a different Buffy in a different universe would do. It may be the booze talking, Buffy acknowledges, but it doesn’t feel like she’s an inhabitant of her own body.

That’s when she sees Cordelia. 

If ever there would a time and place where Cordelia would make an appearance, Buffy would not have expected it to be while she herself was dissociating in a mansion’s kitchen. Even so, Buffy manages to take in the sight.

Cordelia’s fists are balled, stark white from the force, a fierce look of anger plastered across her face. (Even in the dull lighting, with inexplicable rage pouring from her, Buffy notices how amazing she looks. For once, she can’t push the thought away.) Harmony stands across from her, arms crossed, an expression of equal contempt seeping overcoming her normally soft features. They look poised for battle, two snakes ready to strike. Two lionesses prepared with bared teeth and sharpened claws. A strange feeling settles over Buffy.

Cordelia doesn’t see her--doesn’t see Buffy watching her. Instead, she storms off, leaving a fuming Harmony in her wake. Buffy hardly notices when Harmony brushes past her, heels clicking aggressively on the porcelain tiles. 

In another world--back in the world where she knows herself--, Buffy would have let it be. She would have reveled in the fact that Cordelia was upset, maybe even taken more joy in the fact that Harmony was upset too. Two birds with one stone--more reason for celebration, right?

But this isn’t that world, and Buffy doesn’t know herself tonight, so she finds herself following Cordelia.

She exits out one of the mansion’s side doors into the cool, dark night. Initially, Buffy’s taken aback. It leads out to a garden, full of large and plumed rose bushes. An elegant stone walkway springs forth from the door, snaking its way through the multitude of flowers and thorns and circling around a pair of wooden benches. 

On one of the benches sits Cordelia.

Buffy approaches her. She’s slow, cautious, like someone nearing a wild deer. Buffy can’t place whether it’s because she’s afraid of scaring Cordelia off, or if she’s terrified of what she’s actually doing. At this point, she acknowledges grimly, it could be either.

“Hi,” Buffy says. Her voice is clear, she realizes, but it’s not hers. This isn’t something that Buffy would do. She’s standing behind Cordelia, now, hands tentatively at her sides. Buffy keeps them there, she knows, because she can’t trust that she won’t reach out and touch Cordelia’s shoulder. Or hair. Anything--just to touch her. “What happened?”

Cordelia turns to face her. Her normally perfect mascara is smudged in the way that tells she’s been crying. She’s shockingly beautiful even in this moment, Buffy notices. Then again, she’s always beautiful, really, even as she says, “What makes you think I wouldn’t rather discuss that with someone who actually matters?”

Buffy wants to pretend it doesn’t hurt. Buffy wants the usual feelings of hatred to come surging back. Hated was a simpler feeling. It was a lot easier to understand than . . . whatever this is. Buffy can handle any emotion other than this, and she can’t even put a name to it.

Evidently, some part of her expression gave off how badly she had been taken aback. Maybe her face had fallen, or her eyes had widened. Regardless, it had gotten Cordelia’s attention. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffling. It was such a human gesture, really. From someone that Buffy had constantly tried to dehumanize, it was sobering. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Buffy’s silent for a moment. It passes between the two of them with a thickness that Buffy can’t put a name to, overwhelming and unnerving. Finally, just to break the tension and the feeling that has settled itself in the air, choking, Buffy asks, “Have you been drinking?” It seems like the right sort of question to ask, because Buffy has been. 

“No,” Cordelia answers. 

“Then let’s go for a drive.”

* * *

Of all the places had Buffy imagined herself (and that was a different story for a much, much later time), she had never pictured herself in the passenger seat of Cordelia’s car. The red Mustang was the envy of nearly every student at Sunnydale High. Buffy had fantasized more than once about running a key down its side just to see how much anguish it would cause Cordelia. The problem, of course, was that Buffy didn’t have the nerve. She also didn’t carry any keys.

Buffy wasn’t sure where Cordelia was taking her, only that she was driving very fast. Truthfully, Buffy isn’t even sure if they’re in Sunnydale anymore. On all sides, desert stretches out before them.

The wind whirls past as she drives, the land blazing by and the night sky hurtling along above them. Had Cordelia not been sober--and Buffy was truthly beginning to wonder whether or not her previous answer had been completely truthful--she would have worried. For now, though, Buffy’s eyes were trained on Cordelia’s hands gripping the wheel of the car. Her nails were always so perfect. Who else could make teal polish work with any outfit?

“What’s your favorite movie?” Buffy asks suddenly, breaking the silence. At the time, it seems like an important question. 

Cordelia turns her head for a brief moment, blinking. “What?”

“I’m making small talk,” Buffy answers. “What’s your favorite movie?”

Cordelia’s eyes are back on the road, much to Buffy’s relief. She seems to be thinking over the question, turning over answers in her head. It’s not something that Buffy--real Buffy, the one who would never be sitting in Cordelia Chase’s red Mustang--would never have expected from her. Finally, she says, “Clueless.”

That’s such a _Cordelia_ movie. Buffy should have guessed it. There had even been a time when Buffy had refused to watch it because it reminded her too much of Cordelia. It was a fitting situation, somehow. 

Cordelia doesn’t ask, but she doesn’t have to, so Buffy offers her own without prompt. “Mine’s Free Willy.” 

Cordelia _laughs_. It’s such a nice sound, really. Short and sharp. Buffy’s not sure she’s ever heard Cordelia laugh.

“ _Free Willy_? Of all the movies in existence, you choose the one about a whale?”

Buffy shrugs. “It’s a heartwarming story.” 

“It’s my turn,” Cordelia says then, and it catches Buffy’s attention. She blinks. When Buffy doesn’t reply, Cordelia speaks up again. “What?” she spats. “I can’t ask questions, too?” 

“Oh,” Buffy says. Her eyes have moved from Cordelia’s hands to her lips. All the times she had spent being envious about how perfectly her lipstick shaped her lips may have actually been spun from envy that Buffy wasn’t kissing those lips. That wasn’t as troubling a thought as it may have been earlier in the night. “Right. Yeah.”

“Favorite singer? Or band. . . . Musician. Whatever.”

Though it was a nice of truth--or partial truth--, Buffy didn’t think saying _the Jonas Brothers_ would score her any points with Cordelia, no matter how much reasoning she gave. So instead she says, “Fifth Harmony.” 

Buffy almost thinks she sees Cordelia wince at the last word. Even so, she quickly answers with her own reply. “I like Marina and the Diamonds.”

Buffy finds herself smiling, but it’s inexplicable. Two things she had assumed about Cordelia had been proven true; If anything, it shouldn’t have elicited this sort of reaction from her. 

Buffy isn’t sure how long the silence lingers between them. When she’s jarred into thought, it’s by the rumbling of the car as it comes to a stop. 

Cordelia’s pulled over. They’re surrounded by desert--Buffy isn’t sure she’s ever been out here before. Still, it’s enough to cause a weight to settle in her stomach, a jittery bliss that she can’t place a name to.

When Cordelia kisses her, it erupts into fireworks.

Her lips are even softer than Buffy had imagined. Those nights when sleep had eluded her, Buffy would find her mind wandering to places that she had tried so hard to avoid. Now, she gave herself over to her. 

She gave herself over to Cordelia’s lips, to her hand tangling in her hair, to those teal nails digging at the small of her back.

She tastes like cheap booze. She lied. 

But now, in this moment, Buffy can’t bring herself to care.

Buffy hates Cordelia, but maybe only a little.


End file.
